Timidly, scarcely daring, she ventured by degrees to encircle his head with her arm, letting her cool fingers rest over the tense, and feverish hands that covered his face.
"What a boy is this grown man!" she whispered. "What a foolish, emotional, impulsive boy! And such an unhappy one; and such a tired one!"
And, once more hesitating, and with infinite precaution, lest he become suddenly too conscious of this new and shy demonstration, she ventured to seat herself on the arm of his chair and bend closer to him.
"You must go back to your rooms, dear," she murmured. "It is morning, and we both are in need of sleep, I think. So you must say good-night to me and go back to—to pleasant dreams. And to-morrow we will go to Silverwood for over Sunday. Two whole days together, dear——"
Her soft cheek rested against his; her voice died out. Slowly, guided by the most delicate pressure, his head moved toward her shoulder, resisted, fell forward on her breast. For one instant's ecstasy she drew his face against her, tightly, almost fearfully, then sprang to her feet, breathless, blushing from throat to brow, and stepped back.
He was on his feet, too, flushed, dazed, moving toward her.
She stretched out both hands swiftly.
"Good-night, dearest—dearest of men. You have made me happy again. You are making me happier every moment. Only—be patient with me. And it will all come true—what we have dreamed."
Her fragrant hands were crushed against his lips, and her heart was beating faster and faster, and she was saying she scarcely knew what.